William Johnston - Max Smart and the Ghastly Ghost Affair

The old prospector addressed the mule. “Think you can do that, Madame?” he asked. “Think you can look stoopid like this fella here?”

“Isn’t there another way you could phrase that?” Max asked.

“Max-we’re wasting so much time!” 99 protested.

“You’re right, 99.” He turned to the old prospector again. “The important thing is to get to the saloon,” he said. “If you and your mule want to walk upright, that’s your business. But 99 and I happen to be experienced secret agents and we know how to do these things, so we’ll crawl on our stomachs. Now-ready?”

“Max. . if it’s all the same to you, I think I’ll walk upright, too,” 99 said. “This dress just came back from the cleaners, and I don’t see-”

“Well, I’ll crawl!” Max said disgustedly. And he dropped to the ground and began slithering through the dust toward the saloon.

99 and the old prospector and the mule ambled along behind.

“He does that good,” the old prospector remarked to 99.

“He’s had a lot of practice,” she replied. “He drops his cuff links a lot, and they always roll under the bed, and he always has to crawl under after them.”

“He’s sure got to be expert,” the old prospector said, genuinely impressed. “If there was any demand for that kind of thing, I bet he could make a good living at it.” He addressed the mule. “Watch that technique,” he said. “You might want to crawl under a fence someday, and that’s the way to do it. You might have a little trouble pulling yourself forward with your elbows, though. I never noticed that before-you got no elbows, Madame.”

The mule hee-hawed.

“True, true,” the old prospector nodded.

Max stopped crawling and got to his feet. “What did she say?” he asked the old prospector, indicating the mule.

“He’s not a she, he’s a he,” the old prospector replied.

“A he? Named Madame DuBarry?”

“That was his idea, not mine,” the old prospector said. “I didn’t give him a name at all when I got him. I figured that ought to be his right, picking a name for himself. So, for the first nine years I just called him ‘Hey, you!’ Then, on his tenth birthday, I told him to take any name he wanted. Madame DuBarry was the pick. He figured being French it had class.”

“I’ll accept that,” Max said. “Now, what was it he replied when you made that comment about him not having any elbows?”

“He said it saves him the trouble of sewing patches on his sweaters.”

Remaining upright, Max moved on toward the saloon once more. The others hurried after him. As Max neared the entrance to the saloon, however, he abruptly halted. He cocked his head, listening. Then he gestured urgently to the others, signalling them to flatten themselves against the side of the building.

“What is it?” 99 whispered.

“Somebody’s in there!” Max whispered back. “I heard a voice-talking. Let’s get close to a window. Maybe we can hear what’s going on.”

Quietly and warily, they advanced to a window. They could all hear the voice, then.

“It’s Arbuthnot!” 99 said. “What’s he doing-talking to himself?”

“I don’t think so, unfortunately,” Max replied. “Evidently the seminar is being held in the saloon instead of in the hotel. All those assassins must be in there.”

“I see-it’s the KAOS assassins he’s addressing,” 99 nodded. “Then, that means-”

“It means we can’t get in there to look for the Coolidge-head penny,” Max said gloomily. “Unless- Let’s listen. The meeting may break up soon. Then, when the KAOS assassins leave, we can slip in and find the penny.”

“We might pick up some helpful hints, too, listening,” 99 said. “After all, Arbuthnot is recognized as the master. Even around Control he’s known as the assassins’ assassin.”

“Shhhhh!” Max said. He stood on tippytoes to get closer to the window in order to be able to hear better.

“The important thing, when you get an assignment to assassinate some sick person, is not to get that sick person’s germs,” Arbuthnot was saying. “Or, in the words of the prophet: ‘What does it profit an assassin to carry out his mission and then come down with pneumonia?’ ”

“That makes a lot of sense,” Max said to 99.

“Shhhh-I don’t want to miss any of this!”

“There is a lot of agitation these days for a code of ethics for assassins,” Arbuthnot went on. “And, regarding that, I would like to say that, in my personal opinion, what is needed is not a code of ethics for assassins, but a code of ethics for assassins’ victims!”

There were cheers.

“And, thinking along that line,” Arbuthnot continued, “I have compiled a list of rules that I think victims ought to be compelled to abide by. Let’s see what you think of the list. Now, number one, all victims ought to be completely disinfected at least one hour prior to the assassination. Free disinfection clinics ought to be set up for those victims for whom the process would cause economic hardship. I, personally, do not want to assassinate anybody knowing that he, she or it will end up in debt because of it. Agreed?”

Again, cheers.

“Number two,” Arbuthnot resumed, “all victims should be penalized for not covering their mouths when coughing during an assassination. There are enough diseases going around as it is. Let’s not start any epidemics.”

“Hear! Hear!” the assassins cried.

“And, three,” Arbuthnot went on, “no assassin will be required to sneak up barefoot on any victim who has athlete’s foot. I consider this the most important rule of all. It is not generally known, but I still have an itch I picked up in ’46. You might say that I am my victim’s victim.”

“That’s sheer poetry,” Max said to 99, the old prospector and the mule. “But we better not stay here and listen any more. This meeting could go on for hours yet. And the longer we stay here, the greater the chance is that we’ll be spotted.” He motioned to them and then led them a short distance away. “We better hide somewhere until night,” he said. “Then, after dark, we can come back and look for the Coolidge-head penny. Any suggestions on where we could hide?”

“Me and Madame DuBarry can just disappear,” the old prospector said.

“For the time being, let’s stick together,” Max said. “Seeing is believing, you know. If I couldn’t see you, I’d probably stop believing in ghosts. And that would be unfortunate because we need every pair of eyes we can muster to look for that Coolidge-head penny.”

“We better not stay in town, Max,” 99 said. “Before long, the assassins will probably find out that we’re not still in that abandoned mine. And they’ll start looking for us. They’ll begin, I imagine, by searching all the buildings in town.”

“You’re right,” Max replied. “We’ll have to get out of the city.” He turned to the old prospector. “Where is the nearest suburb?” he asked.

“Come again?”

“Where is ‘yonder’?” Max translated.

“Oh. Well, yonder is up in them mountains.”

“Good,” Max decided. “We’ll hide in the mountains until after dark.” He frowned. “We won’t get lost in the mountains, will we?” he asked the prospector.

The old man chuckled. “Me and Madame DuBarry know them mountains like we know the inside of a gnat’s ear,” he said.

“Not at all-right?”

“That about sums it up,” the old prospector nodded. “But, you can’t get lost on a mountain. All you got to do is keep going downhill and you’re bound to get to the bottom sooner or later.”

“I wonder why people who get lost on mountains never think of that?” Max mused.